I have always known that I wanted children, and here is one of the reasons why.
I grew up in a loud house. There was always someone yelling, lots of commotion, and lots of noise in general. I was one of three (for a long time, until I was one of five), but I would argue that my brother Eric counts for two or even three in terms of noise-making abilities.
Holidays were even crazier, typical Italian drama-fests with an entire extended family crammed into tight quarters. I loved it. That is what spoke to my heart. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it just felt like home.
One of the first things I loved about Eric was his big, loud family. I immediately felt like I belonged there, because it felt just like my family gatherings. One of my great joys in life is our weekly Sunday dinner at his parent’s house, a cacophony of kids and grandkids and spouses.
Naturally, I imagined a noisy house of my own, filled with the harmonious sounds of kids and dogs and happiness. Of course, I treasure silence at times, but I like it as an unexpected surprise, not a normal state of being. This morning is so quiet here that you can hear the fish tank filter humming. Sometimes we keep a TV on to drown out the silence, but sometimes we don’t. And in those moments of quiet it can be so lonely.
The silence felt oppressive when there was no solution in sight. Now that we hopefully have one, it feels like the quiet before the storm. It’s a quiet anticipation. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next moment, waiting for the noise to finally come into our house. I like when things are clean and orderly, but once the laundry is done and the dishes are done and the vacuuming is done it’s a little bit sad. I definitely feel a sense of “Now what?” I mean, it’s obvious that I’m lacking a purpose. But it’s not so much lacking as it is having a purpose that’s unfilled for right now.
I’m just really looking forward to the noise.